


the language of touches

by NotPersephone



Series: Count and Countess Lecter [25]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Caring Bedelia, Domestic Bliss, F/M, loss of voice, perfect marrieds are perfect, sickfic of sorts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-07
Updated: 2019-04-07
Packaged: 2020-01-06 09:09:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18385370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotPersephone/pseuds/NotPersephone
Summary: “Hello,” the word leaves his mouth cracked and barely audible, taking them both by surprise.Bedelia sits up at once as Hannibal’s hand reaches for his throat, suddenly failing its function.“That does not sound right,” she moves closer to him, eyes surveying his face with care.





	the language of touches

Hannibal Lecter has never been lost for words, but now the words have abandoned him in the most unexpected of ways.

“Good morning,” opening her eyes, Bedelia murmurs through the parting cover of her sleep, shifting in her spot to look at Hannibal, already wide awake and sitting upright.

It is not uncommon for him to wake up before her, always being an early riser, but she got used to him sleeping longer the last two days, battling the cold that had settled in his chest and head.

“How are you feeling?” she lifts her still heavy head and blinks, trying to assess his state, not an easy feat at times, since Hannibal’s symptoms are largely dependant on his predisposition for exaggeration.

But now he looks at her, smiling, most curious.

“Hello,” the word leaves his mouth cracked and barely audible, taking them both by surprise.

Bedelia sits up at once as Hannibal’s hand reaches for his throat, suddenly failing its function.

“That does not sound right,” she moves closer to him, eyes surveying his face with care.

Her hand rests on his cheek, then forehead, examining the possible return of high temperature, but his skin remains pleasantly warm and not feverishly hot. His spirit seems to have lifted as well; his arm encircles her waist instantly as he pulls her closer, fingers playfully brushing her side.

“Hannibal, please,” she reproaches him, ignoring her body’s response to his caresses, “Sit still.”

She makes him open his mouth as she continues her examination and he continues to hold her close, his obediently stilled fingers feeling impatient against her skin, eager to stroke anew. Undoubtedly, this is the most unusual setting for a medical check-up. She finds his throat red and swollen, an obvious predicament.

“It’s laryngitis,” she concludes her evaluation and makes an effort to untangle herself from his embrace.

Hannibal groans in displeasure; the sound comes out broken and high pitched. Bedelia gives him a sympathetic look, but gets up, nonetheless. He gets ready to leave the bed and follow her, but the raise of her hand halts him immediately.

“No,” she stares at him with narrowed eyes until he lies back down, “You need to rest. I will bring you something to drink.”

His gaze turns downcast and he slowly reaches for her now empty side of the bed, hand stroking the creased sheets. Bedelia sighs quietly; perhaps there is truth in the saying that doctors make the worse patients. Or perhaps it is just Hannibal.

“I will be back shortly,” she announces, turning away to retrieve her robe and leave before his next attempt to keep her in bed is put in motion.

“And you should not be speaking,” she stops in the doorway and gives him another glance over her shoulder.

Eyes wide with surprise at being caught so suddenly, Hannibal closes his mouth and nods his head in silent remorse.

Smiling to herself, Bedelia makes her way downstairs.

 

As promised, she returns swiftly, with tea for Hannibal and her half-finished cup of coffee. She places the tray on his bedside table and takes her cup, sitting at the foot of the bed. Hannibal eyes the remaining cup with distrust.

“It is tea with honey,” Bedelia comments, sipping on her coffee, “It is good for the throat.”

A twist of his mouth tells her that is not the drink of his choice. It is followed by a wistful glance at her cup.

“No, I am sorry,” Bedelia responds to his wordless fancy, “Caffeine is not good for the inflammation.”

Knowing there is no point to argue, and having diminished faculties to do so, Hannibal takes his cup and obediently drinks his tea. Bedelia is surprised he gave in so quickly; she rewards him with a pleased smile.

Once they finished their respective drinks, Bedelia takes his cup and sets to leave, but Hannibal’s hand wraps around hers, stopping her in her tracks.

“What is it?” she asks, unconcerned, knowing well what is on his mind, but teasing him still.

His normally sharp eyes turn wide and sad, a look of premeditated helplessness with a dash of boyish charm. Bedelia presses her lips together, stifling a smile.

“I will bring you some water,” she says and pulls away from his grip which falters in soundless sorrow, “Would you like something to eat?”

Despondent, he shakes her head. She can feel his fervent stare imprinted on her back as she leaves the bedroom.

He is still sitting in hopeful expectation when she comes back with a glass of water and puts it by his side.

“You need to keep your throat hydrated,” she announces as he continues to look at her, wide-eyed, with a wordless plea.

The eyes follow her curiously as she walks slowly around the bed and light up in brilliant sparks when she lies back down on her side of the bed. He shifts closer to her at once, afraid she might change her mind and leave; his arms envelope her waist as he places his head on her abdomen. Bedelia manages not to chuckle at his amplified need for closeness and puts her arm around his back. Soon enough, he falls asleep in her embrace, finally contended.

She manages to keep him in bed for most of the day, taking advantage of his rest to take her leave and prepare light lunch and later, go to the library to select a book to keep her occupied during her afternoon by his side.

When she slips back into the bed, Hannibal’s unconscious form stirs and presses next to her at once, his head finding his preferred spot on her abdomen.

With his body still and breaths even, she does not realise he is no longer asleep until a hand reaches out to stop hers from turning the page. Apparently, he has been reading alongside her for a while.

“You are a very slow reader,” she baits him, pretending to push his hand away.

Hannibal frowns, but does not move away, the comfort of her body too tempting to abandon, even for the sake of continuing the tease. But Bedelia does not turn the page, not until his fingers brush over hers again, a gentle pressure that sends a pleasurable tingle surging up the length of her arm. Her own hand tangles through the strands of his hair, fingertips stroking its length, thumb caressing the nape of his neck and he instantly snuggles closer; a ruthless hunter turned into a domesticated feline under her touch. She can sense a vibration building under his skin and is certain he would purr if the voice cords allowed him. Alas, he settles for embracing her tighter.

 

It isn’t until the sun begins to paint the top of the trees into an array of purple blotches that Bedelia leaves the bed again and makes her way to the kitchen. But her solitude is short lived.

“You should stay in bed,” putting her knife down, Bedelia speaks, knowing without turning that Hannibal, ever a creature of stealth, lingers at the threshold of the kitchen.

It makes her smile, considering how her senses have sharpen to match his; it feels like both of their sensibilities have expended under their mutual influence. His steps are silent, but she senses him at once, now standing behind her. She turns just as he is about to open his mouth.

“No talking,” she instantly presses a finger against his mouth, halting his attempt to formulate words.

Hannibal plants a kiss on her finger than takes her hand and cradles it against his cheek.

“Flattery will get you nowhere,” her voice is firm, but her eyes twinkle with mirth, “Why aren’t you resting?”

Hannibal’s head tilts in contrition and his arms reach out to pull her closer in his embrace. She can hear him utter a hum of delight as her head rests briefly on his chest.

“I have barely been gone for half an hour,” she comments on this heartfelt declaration of missing her, “I wanted to prepare a repast for us,” she turns her head and motions to the meat laid out on the chopping board.

Hannibal steps closer and smiles, immediately recognising the slices as carpaccio, one of his favourite dishes. He inclines his head in obvious appreciation of the thinly sliced tenderloin, the skill matching his in every way. His hand takes hers anew and presses a kiss on her palm, showing his admiration for her deftness. His other hand reaches out for the plate but pauses and retreats almost immediately; he does want to undermine her dish. A gentle smile plays about his lips as he is ready to take a step back, but Bedelia stops him by taking his hand and placing it on top of hers. She lets him guide her hand as she takes the plate and covers it with a layer of arugula leaves. They then arrange the slices of meat; Hannibal’s arm encircles her waist as his other hand continues to assist Bedelia’s, fingers gently steering hers as she picks the pieces one by one and aligns them on plate, crimson red vivid against the ivory porcelain like freshly spilled blood. They drizzle the composition with oil and top it with shaves of Crotonese cheese. This time Bedelia ignores Hannibal’s direction and takes a smaller pinch of cheese.

“It tastes better this way,” she asserts her culinary choice and Hannibal inclines his head in acknowledgement, but keeps his hand on top of hers, relishing the shared touch.

The hand only abandons hers when he takes the bowl of sun-dried tomatoes, placing them on the now empty chopping board. He leaves her to cut them herself, his arm still holding her against his chest, as the knife slices the pieces with practised ease. His cheek rests against hers as he enjoys the show of her mastery; he places an adoring kiss on her temple, and she can sense his lips pulling in a smile against his skin.

Bedelia sets the tomatoes on the side of the plate, the finishing touch to their meal. She turns her head to see Hannibal slowly licking his bottom lip.

“It does look delicious,” she comments, but Hannibal’s eyebrow raises knowingly as a mischievous grin appears on his lips.

“You need to eat,” she places her hand on his chest as a manner of holding his other cravings in check, but she returns his smile with a kittenish purse of her own lips, “You need to regain your strength,” she adds nonchalantly, and his grin widens, the true meaning behind her concern more than apparent.

He promptly follows her into the dining room.

 

After the meal, Bedelia insists that Hannibal retires to the bedroom as she cleans the dishes; it surprises her when he complies without any of his previous objections. The reason behind his swift leave becomes evident when she proceeds to the join him, only to find the bed empty.

She sees him leaving the bathroom, cocooned in a cloud of steam rising behind him from the bathtub, scents of sage and rosemary filtering through the air, a sharp and refreshing concoction.

“What are you doing, Hannibal?” his distractions appears to be more and more inventive as the day draws to a close.

He points to the steam and then his throat and she has to agree with his logic; breathing moist air helps lessen the inflammation.

“Let me know if you need anything,” she turns to leave and allow him to enjoy his bath, but his hand wraps around her wrist at once.

Bedelia remains in her spot, a lift of her eyebrow questioning his motives, as his fingers move to stroke the tender spot on the crease of her hand. It sends an involuntary blush to her cheeks, tantalising warmth spilling down her limbs.

“Hannibal-” she tries to reason with him, but he stops her with a finger pressed gently against her lips and a stern tilt of his head.

_No talking._

She smiles against his finger as he leans forward and kisses her softly. She lets him guide her toward the inviting steam of the bathtub. There is no harm in following her own advice, after all.

They let their bodies do the talking for the rest of the evening.

**Author's Note:**

> Based on the prompt we got on electric-couple, with my own spin on it. It was such fun to write, domestic bedannibal is my absolute favourite as you well know. I just love these two so much and this story has brighten up a very gloom mood of mine and I hope it brings some happiness to you as well. Thank you for reading!


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